I found a light
by IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: Sherlock might be blind, but that doesn't mean he can't live like an ordinary person... well, most of the time at least.   Johnlock, Sequel to "Blindness gives a vision", slight Mystrade, warning: m/m sex
1. Prologue

John Watson never thought that he might be gay. Of course there had been some experiments in high school, the shagging and kissing in the showers after gym classes, and they had gotten bored in Afghanistan - there had never been a day without some of the guys making out behind the tents and others watching them with their cocks in their own hands - but this was a different story.

He'd been with two blokes, one in high school and one in the army. He had only slept with the army guy and it had been too painful to be called pleasant or enjoyable. No, the man never prepared him before he entered him and John hadn't been able to sit without pain. He had been glad that they fought against a group of rebels and that they had to move fast.

No, John Watson had never thought that he might be gay. He always liked the soft curves of a female body, the smooth and soft skin, breasts and long legs. He hadn't liked the stubble on the soldier's face or the feeling of an Adam's apple pressing against his throat.

But he was gay. He found out after the first thing he did after coming home from war was going into a gay bar just to shag some bloke he would never meet again.

Sex was pleasant after a while and he thought that he might like both gender, maybe. He couldn't be sure. Sometimes he looked at men, sometimes at women. He had sex with a woman after his homecoming.

He never knew which gender he preferred.

But with Sherlock, it was different.

He had met the man because of Mike and, even if he'll never admit it, he was thankful. Mike had introduced him to the tall, skinny man with those incredibly long legs, pale skin, dark curly hair and with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Bright blue and grey. Blurred, but beautiful and he always told Sherlock that because Sherlock never believed him.

Sherlock was blind.

But he was able to see.

John hadn't believed him at first, but he'd seen the miracle on his own. Sherlock, kneeling on the floor with one hand resting on Greg Lestrade's leg, describing the corpse and shouting because there was no suit case. He knew every colour, every shade as if he had never been blind. But he was and he had proved it to John more than once.

John had once moved the couch because he wanted it to be in front of the window, better air and fresh, cold wind when he opened it. Sherlock had fallen over it and knocked his head on the ground, the little scar on his forehead was the evidence that he was, after all and regardless how strong his ability was, blind and helpless without a vision to invade.

The ex-army doctor soon understood that Sherlock could see what others did. He made a connection with skin-to-skin contact, he touched a hand or laid his hand on a shoulder and was able to invade their vision.

He once tried to describe it to John, but he wasn't able to understand. No one could unless he or she was in the same position as Sherlock. A mastermind, brilliant and a genius, handicapped and dependent on the ability to touch someone to see. Both were glad that it worked with Mycroft regardless of how far away the elder Holmes was. Sometimes Sherlock sat on the couch, starring at the wall and John knew he was using Mycroft's vision because his face hardened, but he smiled.

It took him a few days to realise that he was attracted to Sherlock. And that he was gay. Completely gay.

The first time he blushed because of Sherlock was when the other man came into his room. Naked. Of course Sherlock was blind, he didn't care about his body and he didn't see John examining every single inch of the skinny body, trying to memorise everything, every single bone visible to him.

Sherlock wanted him to help him with his clothes, Mrs Hudson had made a mistake and his coat wasn't where it should be. Mycroft wasn't looking at the screens, Sherlock had no choice. John immediately went to Sherlock's room, the first time he was in it, and helped him.

They did it every day. Sherlock would come into John's room, saving him from nightmares and pain, and they dressed the blind man. John was glad to help; it was the first step towards a friendship. But, after a while, he started to dream about Sherlock whispering things into his hear with his low, rusty voice, telling him that he wanted him, needed him.

John woke up with rushed breath, sweaty, his boxers wet because of his own semen. He'd had a dream about Sherlock. And he'd liked it, even if he tried to tell himself it would never work.

Mary has wanted to meet him; something about business meetings. Of course Sherlock had been angry, yelling at him that everything had just been a farce and that he was an asshole. It had been the first time he heard Sherlock swearing.

Later, Sherlock had disappeared, and not even Mycroft knew where he was.

John panicked and tried to calm himself down. Sherlock was able to defend himself, he was an adult, strong and brilliant. He heard even the most hushed whispers, he could smell everything. There was no way someone was able to hurt him.

But he was blind and not a fighter.

After a few more hours, he ran around the flat and tried to call Greg, but the DI didn't answer - he later found out that Greg had been talking with his boyfriend, some dirty phone sex - and he was alone. No one knew where Sherlock was and John became desperate. Really, really desperate.

And then, he was able to hear Sherlock. Not like he was standing right next to him, inside his head like his own thoughts but only with the baritone voice of his flatmate. Somehow, they were able to talk with each other in their minds. And John was able to find Greg, he had just finished his shower, and dragged him to the place those idiots were keeping Sherlock caged.

He opened the door and saw Sherlock, sitting on the ground leaning against the wall. There was a warm feeling inside his chest, relief and happiness, and he rushed to Sherlock to kiss him. To his surprise, Sherlock kissed back, moaned, wrapped his arms around John and absorbed his scent. They didn't care that the whole Yard was standing behind them, some yelling at them to get a room, others swearing because of some bets and the loss of money.

John didn't care.

This was just the start of his new life and he would enjoy every second of it.

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><p>Hello guys :)<p>

Some of you wanted a sequel to "Blindness gives a vision" and here it is. This was the prologue, that is the reason it is short, and there will be following chapters describing John and Sherlock's life together.

It's inspired by IBegToDreamAndDiffer's fanfiction "Sherlock: Until next time" because I love the concept of that FF.

If you want me to describe a situation you have in mind, feel free to ask me to ;)

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><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.<p> 


	2. Breakfast

"John!"

John groaned and opened his eyes. His neck hurt, it was stiff and hard. He cocked it a few times, each time there was a loud clicking noise, too silent to be heard by anyone but him. He lay on the coach, his own arms wrapped around his torso. It was cold, far too cold for a living room. He missed the body heat of his boyfriend, they had fallen asleep after watching a movie – the first movie Sherlock had ever seen because Mycroft never wanted to watch movies, they had always read books or gone outside. Now Sherlock was somewhere in the kitchen.

John could smell something burning, a disgusting smell, foul eggs, sulphour, he didn't know what it was but it was absolutely horrifying. But under all those awful scents, he could smell tea. And something sweet, a wonderful taste was in the air.

John's stomach growled and he slowly got up, yawning.

It was seven o'clock, on Saturday and they both had the day off - Sherlock because Lestrade was in the hospital and the DI replacing him didn't allow a blind man to go on a crime scene and John because he wanted to spend time with Sherlock. It was sunny outside, but cold, winter slowly began to banish autumn, leaves falling to the ground and snow covering everything in white icing sugar.

He sometimes caught Sherlock sitting in front of the window, listening to the wind and the people on the street. He always lifted his head to the sky and opened his eyes, starring into the blackness of his own mind, imagining how snow might look, but never asking John if he could see it through his eyes.

Sherlock was able to, but he never did, he was too afraid that John might run away because he was a freak. John loved to prove him wrong, to show Sherlock how much he loved him. He didn't think that it was some sick ability, he thought it was amazing, extraordinary.

He would wrap his arms around his boyfriend, let his chin and head rest on his shoulder and tell him that he could invade his vision - he didn't like that phrase, he preferred 'Sharing the sight' but Sherlock never said that. As if he didn't like it or thought that it was too optimistic for a power like his.

"John!" Sherlock screamed again and something broke, John could hear the thunk of a glass object shattering.

He stood up and stretched his arms, yawning again. The smell got stronger the closer he got to their kitchen. He stopped in the doorframe, jaw dropped and eyes wide-open.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen. His hair was a dirty mess of white powder, egg yolk, and sugar. His whole body was covered in flour and a sticky coloured liquid that John couldn't identify.

Sherlock wore John's apron, it was too small for him and too wide at the same time, with nothing but his boxers underneath. In front of him were two cups of tea, some pastries that John couldn't see under all the sugar and crumbles. Right next to it were some experiments, Sherlock did at least one or more a week, John didn't notice them anymore.

His boyfriend turned to him and smiled.

"Finally you're awake," he snorted and poured some tea in one of the cups, putting his fingers on the edge. He didn't stop pouring the liquid until it reached his fingertip. He put the kettle away and walked directly through some shards without cutting himself.

"What… what are you doing?"

"John, please, it is obvious!" John just chuckled and went to Sherlock's side, wrapping his arms around his waist. He placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips, his heart beat faster as Sherlock smiled at him. "I'm making breakfast."

"And why? I could have done it," John told him and sighed. "You destroyed one of the cups, love."

A familiar feeling rushed through his brain and his veins. Warm, caring and loving. Sherlock lowered his head and John looked at the ground, directly at the broken cup. Mrs Hudson's favourite one she brought Sherlock last year. His boyfriend just snorted and continued to prepare breakfast.

"I can repair the cup, there's no need to cry over a destroyed object which can easily be replaced without anyone noticing," Sherlock said. "And I wanted to do it today."

He placed the plates with the pastry on a tray and took it before he went into the living room, his bare feet touching the cold glass shards beneath his feet. John followed him immediately and made sure he didn't stumble. Sherlock knew where everything was in their flat, but Mrs Hudson sometimes forgot that she wasn't allowed to move anything. Sherlock once knocked himself out after he fell over a little table.

John and Sherlock sat down on the couch, some morning show playing on the television and their breakfast in front of them. Sherlock searched for one of the pastry and began to eat it, he wouldn't eat more, John knew. He cleared his throat and starred at the food in front of him. Sherlock could have confused sugar and salt without knowing it, he could have accidently put chemicals in it.

But it was the first time Sherlock had managed to prepare food without John's help and he didn't want to ruin it.

So he took the cup, carefully took a sip and smiled. It tasted like something had died in it, the unmistakeable taste of corpses and death, too much sugar and not enough milk for John, but he still smiled. Sherlock probably knew that it tasted horrible, but neither of them would talk about it.

John knew he would be able to teach Sherlock, tell him where everything was and how to make a proper breakfast. Sherlock was a fast learner and he would appreciate it. He always felt guilty that John had to do every thing, the food, the dressing, every tiny thing a normal person could do on their own.

But it was fine for them.

Sherlock would always deny that he couldn't prepare food and John would agree with him.

Mycroft knew, Greg knew it too, but no one else did.

"What kind of pastry did you make?" John asked Sherlock after he let his head rest on his boyfriend's shoulder, putting the empty cup down.

"I don't know, I just mixed some things you always put in your cakes and baked it," Sherlock said casually and went into the kitchen again.

John spit it out and shook his head. Now he knew where the stench of sulphur was from. He felt like he had to throw up, an urge to get everything out of his stomach and body. But he couldn't do that. Sherlock was too proud.

So he swallowed everything, smiled when Sherlock came back in and kissed him on the cheek.

Sherlock didn't notice that he lied, maybe because he wanted to be fooled. But from that day on, he made breakfast.

At least he got better every day.

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><p>Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.<p> 


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